


The Battle for Bucky Barnes' Arm

by hellobhav



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-06 21:46:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6771481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellobhav/pseuds/hellobhav
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve tries to understand why Bucky needs to get that red star off his metal arm, then tries to find a way to help him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Battle for Bucky Barnes' Arm

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in some in-between ~thing~ where Steve and Sam have found Bucky, and Steve's regained his trust enough that they're sharing an apartment. So, no Civil War spoilers.  
> Also, I have way too many sad Bucky Barnes headcanons :'c

Steve notices when Bucky spends a day holed up in his room - it’s hard not to, when the sounds of metal against metal are loud enough that he can hear them from the kitchen - but he doesn’t push, doesn’t ask Bucky what’s going on, if he’s okay, because sometimes everyone needs days like that.

Bucky doesn’t come out of his room for dinner, either. Steve knocks on his door, tells him that he’s made chicken and that there’s some left over if he’s hungry. The only response he gets is the sound of metal against metal, and then a thud, like something’s been thrown against a wall. Steve chews on his lip. He hesitates. He wants to ask Bucky if he’s okay, because he’s getting a little worried, but he tells himself to trust that Bucky will be okay, tells himself that Bucky’s a grown up and he can handle himself.

(He also tells himself that if Bucky’s not out of his room tomorrow, then he’ll break down his door to check on him.)

The good thing is that he doesn’t need to do that: when he wakes up for his morning run, he finds that Bucky’s room door is wide open, though Bucky himself isn’t there. Steve peeks into the room, but everything is as bare and pristine as it always is, and he can’t figure out what Bucky spent all day doing. Figuring that Bucky’s gone for a run - he has a habit of going before Steve, which Steve doesn’t really mind so much - he leaves the room as it is and goes for his own run.

Bucky’s back by the time Steve returns. 

The smell of bacon and coffee wafts through the house as Steve enters, and his shoulders slump a little in relief. They’ve got a ritual going in the mornings now - Bucky wakes up and goes for his run, Steve wakes up a little after he does and goes for his, Bucky usually gets back home before Steve and starts on breakfast and Steve cleans up - and Bucky making breakfast has Steve thinking that maybe he’s okay after yesterday.

His eyes flicker to Bucky’s left arm - he’s got a very strong  _ feeling _ in his gut that the metal-on-metal sounds have something to do with his arm - but Bucky’s in a hooded sweatshirt that’s basically become his uniform now, and Steve can’t see his arm. His attention’s diverted from Bucky’s arm as his friend turns to him and sets a plate with two rashers of bacon, two eggs, sunny side up, and two slices of toast down on the table, nodding at Steve to eat. Steve’s face relaxes into a smile as he takes his seat. He waits for Bucky to pour out two mugs of coffee and bring them over to the table, along with his own plate, and they have breakfast in a comfortable silence that Steve finally interrupts with a  _ So you’re not gonna believe what I saw on my run today… _

For the rest of the day, Steve keeps throwing glances at Bucky’s left arm, but Bucky keeps the sweatshirt on the entire day. Which is a little weird, Steve thinks, especially considering that Bucky’s become comfortable enough around him to change into tank tops or shorter-sleeved tees when it’s just the two of them at home.

Steve does that for the next couple of days, shooting glances at Bucky’s arm whenever he remembers the other day. Bucky, for his part, keeps his arm covered with sweatshirts and long-sleeved shirts.

If Steve finds this odd, he doesn’t say anything.

As time goes on, the furtive looks at Bucky’s left arm get less and less, till the sound of metal on metal fades into the back of Steve’s mind, buried under more pressing matters. Bucky’s arm stays covered up in his shirts, and after a while Steve stops noticing that anything’s odd.

Until he comes home after a run one rainy morning and Bucky’s got his shirt off as he makes breakfast and Steve notices that the red star on his left arm is scratched and chipped, like Bucky’s gone over it with a knife to try and scrape it off but hasn’t been completely successful.

Steve freezes at the door. He remembers the day that Bucky was holed up in his room and the sound of metal on metal. He remembers that  _ thud _ and wonders if that was Bucky’s frustration at not being able to get the red star off.

His eyes flicker to Bucky as he turns from the stove to look at Steve. Bucky breaks into a smile and nods at the table, and Steve gives him a soft smile in turn. 

_ No wonder Bucky’s kept his arm covered up _ , he thinks as he takes his seat, eyes locked on Bucky. He watches the brunet quietly. He thinks back on how Bucky’s been these past few weeks, and it sinks in that he was a little withdrawn, quieter, a little on edge. Steve draws a shaky breath -  _ I should’ve noticed. Should’ve said something. Should’ve asked him about it. I should’ve done  _ **_something_ ** .

Bucky brings two plates over to the table, each carefully decorated with two stacked waffles and a delicate poached egg sitting on top of the waffles. The pride is evident as he sets the plates down, one in front of Steve and one where he usually sits. He grabs their mugs of coffee and sets them down too, then beams at Steve and nods at him to dig in.

Steve wants to ask him about the red star, but it’s obvious that Bucky’s not going to start eating till Steve does, so he carefully breaks the egg (and catches the way Bucky’s eyes light up as the yolk runs into the waffles) and cuts a piece of the waffle. 

Bucky doesn’t take his eyes off Steve until the waffle piece is  _ in his mouth _ , and Steve wonders if this is the best time to ask Bucky about his arm - Bucky’s so  _ happy _ right now, and Steve’s loathe to take that away from him.

But he  _ has _ to know.

They’re quiet as usual as they have breakfast. This time, though, Steve doesn’t break the silence with a  _ So you’re not going to believe what I saw on my run today _ .

“Buck?”

Bucky looks up, cheeks puffed out like a hamster as he pauses mid bite and tips his head questioningly at his friend.

Steve’s voice is soft and hesitant as he asks, “What happened with your arm?”

Almost immediately he regrets asking that. 

Bucky’s face freezes. He swallows, then ducks his head, but not before Steve notes how his expression has changed. All that happiness is gone, replaced by a blankness that he gets whenever he remembers his time as the Winter Soldier or something else equally as unpleasant. 

(Steve’s heart sinks. He shouldn’t have said anything, he thinks, but he’s said nothing before and  _ this _ is what has happened.)

He notices Bucky biting down on his bottom lip, notices his jaw clenching, notices the way he grips his fork and his knife a little tighter, knuckles practically turning white. He notices the way he takes in a couple of shaky breaths. And he notices the way Bucky keeps his eyes locked on his plate as he shakes his head.

“Nothing,” Bucky mumbles. “It’s nothing.”

It’s like they’re at a stalemate now: both men are clutching their cutlery, neither one is eating.

Steve  _ could _ let it go. He  _ should _ let it go, he thinks. But this is  _ Bucky _ . This is his best friend. This is the one person Steve would go to the ends of the earth for, would gladly give his life up for. If Bucky’s not doing alright, then Steve needs to know, because he needs to know how to help.

“Bucky.” He sets his cutlery down. “Come on.”

There’s that twitch in his jaw again, a barely-discernible gritting of the teeth that Steve only picks out because this is  _ Bucky _ , Bucky who he’s known all his life, Bucky who he knew like the back of his hand a long, long time ago.

Steve thinks he can practically see Bucky debating with himself. There’s the slightest quiver to his fork and his knife, like he’s wrestling with himself and it’s too much for him.

Then Bucky sets his cutlery down, almost slamming them onto the plate hard enough that it cracks.

“I can’t, okay?” Bucky says, his voice trembling. “I can’t - I can’t have  _ it _ there. Every time I look at it, I remember what they did to me. All the things they made me do. All the people…”

He breaks off, squeezing his eyes shut, biting down hard enough on his lip that Steve’s afraid that he’ll break the skin. His right hand curls into his fist, fingernails digging into his palm. “Steve…” His voice is barely above a whisper, thick with desperation. “I can’t have it there anymore.”

Steve’s pretty sure he can feel his heart breaking. He reaches out and closes his hand over Bucky’s fist. He can feel the tendons in Bucky’s hand twitch as he fights the urge to pull it back, and Steve’s grateful that he doesn’t. He rubs his thumb in small circles. 

“Bucky, you’re not him anymore - you’re not the Winter Soldier. HYDRA, they don’t have a hold on you anymore.”

Bucky draws his hand back sharply, pushes his plate away as he stands. “Yeah,” he says, in a manner that tells Steve that he hasn’t  _ understood _ . 

Steve bites his lip as Bucky walks away, slamming his door shut. He’s got no right to stop him.

* * *

“I’d like to paint your arm,” Steve tells Bucky a couple of weeks later.

Bucky barely looks up from the crossword he’s working on. “You say that like you don’t paint me all the time.”

Steve rolls his eyes even as the colour rises to his cheeks. “I don’t paint you  _ all _ the time.” He might  _ sketch _ Bucky a fair bit, but he doesn’t  _ paint _ him so much. “No, I don’t mean that. I mean...I’d like to paint  _ on _ your arm.”

Bucky’s head shoots up. The colour drains from his face, his expression turning cold and blank.

Steve doesn’t even flinch. “Kind of like a tattoo, but on your non-tattooable arm.”

“Why?”

Steve shrugs. “Because having  _ that _ on your arm isn’t doing you any good.”

There’s a pause.

Steve isn’t looking at him, but he thinks Bucky might be considering his offer, so he picks up his sketchbook, flips to a page and slides it over. “I had some ideas…”

There’s another pause.

Bucky hesitates. His eyes flicker from Steve to the sketchbook on the coffee table and back up to Steve, then to the sketchbook again. Slowly, he sets his newspaper and pencil down and leans to take the sketchbook. He studies the sketches. Blue-grey eyes turn on Steve again.

“So my choices are either HYDRA or a series of fucking shooting stars?” he snorts.

Steve lets out a little laugh. He leans back in the armchair, shrugging. “I’m open to suggestions.”

* * *

 

There’s something oddly calming about getting his arm painted.

Bucky’s half asleep on the couch with his right arm draped over his forehead while Steve’s on the floor, metal paints in red, white, blue and black and an array of brushes next to him as he works on the left arm. Now and again Bucky turns his head, peeks at Steve from under his arm and watches him work.

He doesn’t remember ever watching Steve work on his art. If he digs through his memories, he thinks he remembers coming across Steve sketching, thinks he remembers being a shit about it - thinks he remembers Steve giving as good as he gets, and the thought makes Bucky’s lips curl up in a smile.

He watches Steve, noting how apart from a slight crease in his brow, he’s got a serene expression on his face. 

He turns his face back up to the ceiling and closes his eyes, wishing he could  _ feel _ what Steve was doing on his arm.

It takes a couple of hours, interrupted by Steve shifting position and making small talk (and Bucky swears he can hear his joints creaking when he moves, and he cracks jokes about Steve being 92), and water breaks and toilet breaks and snack breaks and whatnot.

When it’s finally done, Steve sits back, gazing at his handiwork for a moment before looking up at Bucky with a smile.

“Take a look.”

Bucky does.

He smiles.

It’s a shy sort of smile, one that Steve doesn’t think he’s ever seen on Bucky’s face before. He watches Bucky get up, go to the bathroom, has to practically sprawl out on the floor so he can watch Bucky study himself in the mirror, turn this way and that to check out the shield on his left arm, red and white blue with a red star in the centre of it. It contrasts beautifully with the shine of the metal, and for the first time, Bucky feels his heart swelling up with pride at the sight of the star on his arm.

He turns to look at Steve, who can’t quite figure out what the look on Bucky’s face is. He opens his mouth, then closes it, wets his lips. He makes his way out of the bathroom and back to the living room, and Steve stands too. Again Bucky opens his mouth, tries to speak, but he can’t find the right words. Steve simply smiles, waits, gives his best friend the space to figure out what he’s trying to say.

Bucky sighs, chews on his bottom lip, then closes the distance between himself and Steve and hugs him tight. Steve returns the hug, smiling.

“Thank you, Steve.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for the read! If you enjoyed it (or even if you didn't), please do let me know~!


End file.
